Not In Blood, But In Bond
by DjDangerLove
Summary: A collection of one-shots mainly based on the father/son relationship of Gibbs and Tony with the possibility of some based on the brotherly relationship of Tony and McGee. No slash. Ch. 1: Rule Number Eleven - Gibbs has to save Tony in more ways than one and what better way to do so than with one of Gibbs' rules?
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is my first NCIS story. I own nothing except a heart that loves it. I try desperately to keep characters in character but still put them in familial scenarios and situations to explore that relationship in my stories, so I hope you enjoy it and the other one-shots that will follow. Thanks for giving it a chance!

Based during season eleven after Once a Crook, mainly because I wanted to work with an emotionally worn out DiNozzo, but you could read with your own interpretation of why Tony may be feeling a little down.

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**Rule Number Eleven**

The end of the barrel was cool against his burning flesh, so maybe that's why he leaned into the gun at his temple, but the weight he felt on his shoulders, in his chest somewhere near his slow-beating heart gave him doubt. The relief that coursed through him curved one corner of his mouth slightly upward as he let his eyes lazily fall to half mast. Even a sharp, "DiNozzo!," from Gibbs standing a few feet away, gun aimed at Tony's capturer, prepared to end a life to save another, couldn't make him jump, couldn't make him wear the mask any longer.

However, he managed to settle his bleary vision on the older man. Even through the haze, Tony could make out the lines of disappointment, anger, and something else the Senior Agent was too tired, too dreary, to even register before swallowing thickly and saying, "Rule number eighteen. It's better to seek forgiveness than ask permission, but I gotta break it just this once Boss, because I gotta ask you if I can just let him shoot me now?"

"Yes, Gibbs. Please, let him break rule number eighteen." The gunman encouraged, tightening his grip around Tony's neck, but only getting a reaction from Gibbs' twitchy trigger finger. He didn't pull, but damn did he want to.

"The hell you can, DiNozzo."

"Two weeks is a long time, Gibbs. Very long time to be in this guy's hands. You said...you said you'd find me. Why," Tony screwed his eyes shut, trying to get his thoughts to quit swimming. "Why didn't you find me?"

"I'm right here, Tony," and even in his drugged and tortured mind, the younger man could pick up on the fact that Gibbs said it as if Tony could simply just open his eyes and it would be true.

"Sure. Sure. Like you were last time...no, no, no. Not this time, Boss." Tony chuckled, keeping his eyes closed, and if Gibbs' stomach twisted he let it show in his hands holding his weapon rather than his face.

"What the hell have you done to him?"

"Oh, our dear Anthony's swimming in hallucinogens, Agent Gibbs. Been real fun getting to know what really goes on inside this kid's head. Real kicked puppy you've taken in Gibbs, I must say. All your agents come from the pound, or just this one?"

"He was more like a stray, but I've considered sending him to the pound a couple of times over the years."

"Oh yeah, what happened? Just didn't have it in ya?"

"Something like that. But make no mistake, I have no problem sending you somewhere worse if you don't let him go."

"I think he's ready to be euthanized if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you, and now I'm telling you, let him go or I'll put you down."

The gunman froze holding a slowly buckling-at-the-knees Tony steady while catching the fiery gaze of a determined NCIS agent. "No wonder he kept calling out for you like a loyal mutt barking for his owner."

Gibbs had had enough. A second away from pulling the trigger, he took a slow intake of air, but on the outtake, right before squeezing the trigger, the gunman shoved Tony forwards in a jumbled, uncoordinated heap, turned his gun on himself and pulled, landing in his own dead before he hit the ground mess.

Gibbs only took a second to recover. Stepping over Tony's huddled form, he kicked the gun from the dead man's hand, just out of instinct, and turned back to DiNozzo curled on his side. He holstered his weapon, and squatted down to stare at his agent for a moment deciding whether to slap him on the back of the head, or just turn him on his back.

"Tony," He finally decided, and placed a calloused hand on the younger man's arm and pushed slowly to roll him onto his back. Tony's eyes were still shut and his lips were moving with the unintelligible mumbles escaping between extremely chapped, split, and bleeding lips. The order, "DiNozzo, open your eyes," was followed by a gentle head slap.

Finally, dull, glassy eyes opened and found his. "Nice try, but you're not Gibbs."

Gibbs sighed, and had just enough relief in him to smile. "Rule number fifty-one. Sometimes you're wrong. Look at me, Tony." Eyes found him, but didn't _see. _"No. Look at me."

It took a few seconds, but finally a small, "Hey, Boss. What took you so long?"

A sigh, "Could ask you the same thing. Were you really planning on letting him shoot you?"

The younger agent meddled through the side effects wracking his brain enough to give his patented half-grin and small chuckle to signify that DiNozzos do not get embarrassed without trying to play it off. "Course not. I just felt bad for the guy...had to give him some kind of hope, ya know? Make him think he had the upper hand, then you could enact rule number sixteen and break it."

"Brilliant plan, DiNozzo, fooled me."

Tony grinned, but it wasn't of the shit-eating variety like it should've been and his eyes almost glazed over with boredom before sliding closed. "Rule number...," he craned his neck trying to catch his train of thought, "fifty-one, Boss."

"Can you sit up," Gibbs asked as he heard sirens in the distance.

"I like sitting...at my desk. Nice desk, but...sad. It's empty, Boss. She...she...- I want to lay here, away from my desk. Away."

Giibbs could silently hear Ziva's name in the long, stuttering pauses spilling from a delirious tongue. "There's other places for you to sit, Tony."

Perhaps it was because the idea of almost losing another member of his team was starting to catch up with him, but he knew by the glassy eyes suddenly staring back at him that his subtle attempt at comfort wasn't so subtle. "Aren't...aren't you supposed to quote rule number eleven now? When the job is done, walk away. Give a head slap and say get over her...-it, get over it."

"Some jobs are never over, DiNozzo. You don't walk away from family."

And maybe that's why when two weeks later another gun barrel was pressed against his burning flesh, Tony didn't lean into it, wasn't relieved. Instead, he bit back a sarcastic remark that would make even Gibbs grin before giving in a few seconds later, waited until the man himself showed up, followed closely by McGee, for help, and went back to the only job he could never lose. After all, Gibbs had given him an order.

He couldn't walk away from his family, no matter how hard it was to stay.

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AN: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think if you feel inclined! :)


	2. Always This Place

**AN: Thanks for the favorites, alerts, and reviews! It means a lot and I'm glad you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing. If you're interested, I wrote this while listening to the Band of Horses' song _The Funeral_. Check them out if you don't know about them! They are an awesome band! **

**I still don't own anything except a heart that loves the show. **

**Set after Kate's death... Tony is no longer I'll. **

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**Always This Place**

_It's always this place._

It's thirty degrees outside without the wind, but there's bursts of it that make the dry skin on the back of his hands turn a monstrous shade of purple when it stings his uncovered limbs. He has a good coat, hell, a very _expensive_ coat that'd do him wonders if he actually had it on, but it's made with too much material to carry on already aching shoulders. He'd shrug off the world if he could to wear his jacket, but he knows he can't so he didn't even bother opening the closet door to retrieve it before leaving his apartment.

There's enough absence of light to let him know he's out during a time that the clock ticks while people are sleeping, but not him. His clock works just fine, or it did until he gave the nightstand a good DiNozzo ass-kicking with it before he discarded it across the room with a football player's arm. It's the sleeping part that's giving him trouble. Not that he can't, because he knows that if he were to be vertical on any surface right now he'd be oblivious to the rest of the world in a matter of seconds. He can sleep. He just doesn't want to.

If he's asleep, he's not doing anything and he needs to do everything. He has to _be_ everything. They're down an agent and he can't bring himself to acknowledge the void she's left, because he can still hear her mocking him with every inappropriate joke that spills from his mouth and he's afraid that if he accepts her death, he'll no longer be able to hear her. He already can't see her, can't remember her face without an ugly, red bullet hole in the center of her forehead and Kate was anything but ugly. So, he just continues. Never stops. Never slows down.

He picks up his running pace and ventures off the sidewalk to avoid having to weave through garbage cans placed on the ends of driveways for pick up. The music in his ears provided by his headphones prevents him from hearing the approaching car from behind, but the headlights paint his shadow on the pavement in front of him, but he doesn't bother hugging the curb just in case the driver can't see him or gets too close. He keeps his lane, doesn't even hope the driver does the same. He just keeps running from the place he started, from the time displayed on his broken clock, from the memories in his head, from the thoughts of the future. He's running with no place to go, so he isn't surprised when his legs grow tired where they do.

He's bent over at the end of a driveway, sweaty palms sliding against the material of his jogging pants covering his knees. He looks up at the house he's seen enough times to know that the air of unfamiliarity surrounding it stems from the barricades he's put up himself, and wonders if he's too tired to break them down tonight. He cracks his spine as he straightens in contemplation before giving in to his unsteady legs and advances towards the house like a stranger asking his neighbor to help him search for a missing pet. Desperate, but wary.

He's on the porch before he realizes it and wants to turn around, but knows the occupant inside has undoubtedly heard him. He doesn't knock, not because he expects the door to be opened by the owner, or because he knows he doesn't have to. It's because he suddenly feels the bitter cold on the surface of his skin, has the desire to have a heavy jacket weighing on his shoulders, and wants to have a clock tick away time while he sleeps. He knows it has nothing to do with the exercise he's just endured, but everything to do with the place he's wound up at.

The door grows taller as he feels the hard surface of the porch against his backside and finds it strange that the smell of wood and bourbon hasn't hit him yet. He's always in the basement before his legs give out, not at the doorstep like a discarded package. The smell he's use to finally swims under his nose, but it's faint, not suffocating.

"DiNozzo."

He props his arms on his bent knees and folds his hands when he looks up at the figure standing in the now open doorway.

"Hey, Boss," He lifts the corner of his mouth to smirk but drops it quickly with exhaustion. "When are you going to re-stain your porch? If you want, I could do it for ya. I once had to - "

"Why are you here, DiNozzo," Gibbs questions as he folds his arms and leans against the doorway.

"Oh. I was out for a run...in the neighborhood. Thought I'd-"

The older man glances at his working watch, "at 0300?"

"Well...my clock's broken - long story, funny story, really."

"I don't care about the clock, Tony. Why are you here?"

Tony snorts with a weird grin. "I feel like we just had this conversation, Boss."

"I meant the porch, DiNozzo, not my house."

"Eh...just wondering when you were going to get around to re-staining it."

Gibbs stares at him for a moment before stepping back inside the house only to appear out on the porch a moment later with a blanket to drop in the Senior Field Agent's lap. He doesn't ask if Tony wants to come inside, because he knows the younger man will find himself sitting on the couch in the basement eventually. He also knows that it's not the basement that's the safe haven Tony seeks.

It starts with where they are now. The unlocked door, the unstained porch, the seated position of their backs against the exterior wall of the house, shoulders barely touching - it's everything Tony needs it to be and anything Gibbs can make it for any member of his team.

"You know I don't plan on re-staining the porch." Gibbs says it, not to remind Tony but because he always says it, because the younger man always asks as if he needs to verbalize an excuse to be there even though the real reason is easy to see.

DiNozzo sighs, but Jethro does his best to act like he doesn't know why, like he doesn't know that the condition of the porch is some sentimental element to each member of his team. Gibbs knows there will always be broken clocks and missing jackets, and middle of the night runs. He knows that there will always be barriers, locked doors and stained porches along with misleading questions and redirected conversations. But among all the things that make DiNozzo his usual self, there's always a place that has a working clock, a warm blanket, and a place to sit in the middle of the night. This place has no barriers to keep anything out, an unlocked door and an unstained porch. It also has somebody who can read behind every misleading question and understand every redirected conversation. This place allows Tony to be everything he needs to be without having to do anything at all.

It's Gibbs's porch and it's always this place.


End file.
